


macbeth

by ThomasTheMemeEngine



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M, Short & Sweet, it's literally just a conversation. the ending is so corny it'll make you wanna eat tidepods, theater nerd writes theater fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomasTheMemeEngine/pseuds/ThomasTheMemeEngine
Summary: "That your costume, I assume? Still won't tell me what your show is all about?"Jaskier chuckled in response. "I can't with your prying." He slipped into a purple, flowy shirt and the glamerous doublet. "Must I really repeat myself again? It's bad luck to reveal too much of a play. It's tinged with a, how do you say... religious zeal, if that's what you're wondering. Supposed to teach the commonfolk a thing or two about morality."______Jaskier finds an allegory for his complicated relationship with the witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	macbeth

**Author's Note:**

> yaba daba fucking doo

Jaskier slipped out of Geralt's hold which was loosely resembling an embrace yet _wasn't quite it_.

The brunette hissed at the feeling of cold air against his bare, heated skin. _Dammit_. He threw a needlessly accusing look at the sleeping man he had just untangled himself from. Geralt, in his absolute oddity and otherworldliness, somehow always managed get up with such ease... even during the icy, unforgiving winter months! Jaskier, however, already stopped dead in his tracks before his feet even touched the floor. His body was _physically cringing_ at the prospect of exiting the warm bundle of blankets and furs.

Waking up before noon was in itself a wicked thing but poor Jaskier didn't have much of a choice. He ran on a schedule now, _mind you_ , therefore it was of utmost importance to get out of bed shortly after the first rays of sunshine licked at his face — right when the farmers rose to tend to their crops and the priests prepared for their earliest prayer — that's how fucking early it was. So much for being a _"tragically dick-driven and_ _sluggish dandy_ _"_ and a _"dallying, princely yapper"_. Geralt's elaborate verbal attacks were somewhat awe-inspiring since he had started off by voicing his complaints in vague grunts and the occasional, low-pitched growl that sounded _a little_ too wolfish to be entirely human. Maybe the poet's flowery rhetoric has resurrected the underdeveloped, cobwebbed parts of his witcher's brain that were responsible for producing sounds? Jaskier smirked to himself because he knew it to be true and nothing else mattered.

He promptly drifted over to his bag and pulled out his set of clothes for the day. Jaskier couldn't help the contented sigh that fell from his lips as he lunged for the thick, velvety cloth of his shiny, new doublet — black, adorned with purple yarn and a few delicate ribbons here and there. He rubbed his thumb over the puffy sleeves, the tiny patterns on them. He couldn't help this fierce adoration for each and every bump. The wonderful and hard-working seamstress had promised, it would accentuate Jaskier's stage presence; keep the audience spellbound and eager.

"Rehearsal?", Geralt murmured weakly. The sound was partially muffled by a pillow.

Jaskier slipped into his pants, careful not to pull too hard. He feared for the embroidery. " _Final_ rehearsal.", he corrected, feeling coy somehow. Was Geralt watching him get dressed? He could have turned around to check, but... _No_. Too blunt. Suddenly, buttoning himself up became an awkward ordeal. It wasn't until Geralt began shifting on the creaky mattress that the uncomfortable silence disappeared.

"That your costume, I assume? Still won't tell me what your show is all about?"

Jaskier chuckled in response. "I _can't_ with your prying." He slipped into a purple, flowy shirt and the glamerous doublet. "Must I _really_ repeat myself again? It's bad luck to reveal too much of a play. It's tinged with a, how do you say... _religious zeal_ , if that's what you're wondering. Supposed to teach the commonfolk a thing or two about morality."

Jaskier glanced around the room in distress. There was not a single mirror nor reflective surface in sight. Geralt could tell what he was looking for and almost cracked a smile at his vanity.

"The Church of the Eternal Fire's funding this?" The disgust in his voice was apparent.

Jaskier finally turned around to look at him for what felt like the first time in forever. "Sadly, _yes_."

Geralt's mood visibly soured.

Jaskier threw up both of his hands. "I don't like it too much either, but, as it is... They're our only source of coin. Worry not, we're adding a little twist which will make it much more bearable. I mean... You know me, I'm not much of a mummer. If Irina didn't need my help, I wouldn't even be there. Acting's not my calling, truth be told. I prefer having the entire stage for myself..."

Geralt hummed, somewhat appeased. It was not unlike him to extend a helping hand in times of need... Especially when the finer arts were at stake.

"A shame, really. Her troupe's awfully talented yet they're lacking people that can actually _sing_ and there's this little ditty at the end that no one got the hang of... Welp, that's where I come in. What can you do? My impeccable singing voice's just... _Ah, bollocks_."

A bow on his back came loose in a most tragic turn of events. The two ribbons fell and hung mockingly from his side. _Shit, shit, shit._ Jaskier huffed and tried to see if he could touch the spot where it was tied together, but — no such luck, it was simply out reach. He gave a miserable little whine and locked eyes with Geralt.

"Would you...?", he urged him with a panicked guesture.

Geralt, that asshole, raised his eyebrows at him. "What if I don't?"

Now it was Jaskier's turn to frown. " _Ha ha ha._ Simply can't get enough of your jesterin' _._ What a side-splitter. I'm _struggling_ here!"

Geralt smirked at his friend's temper tantrum and pushed himself off the bed.

Meanwhile, Jaskier clicked his tongue and turned his back towards the witcher. "Be gentle, the ribbons are living on a prayer." His irritated facade was barely enough to mask the underlying restlessness. Jaskier fought off a flinch when Geralt's hands, steady and reliable as they were, lightly tugged on the fabric. He couldn't possibly know how to properly — no, _aesthetically_ — tie a bow but for now, anything would do. Even an ugly knot. Geralt briefly halted after completing his task, as if deep in thought. Jaskier was about to ask if everything was alright but his words died a horrible, undeserving death in his throat at the hands of Geralt, who, in a sprig of zest, forcefully pushed his digits into the top of the unsuspecting bard's spine. It resulted in a short, undignified yelp.

"You're slouching.", Geralt noted, cooly. " _Don't_."

He gave his shoulder blades an indelicate squeeze, taking it upon himself to correct the man's posture. Jaskier, of course, bemoaned this. "Must you always treat me like a rag doll?"

"Jas, you _keep_ telling me how much your back hurts all day. I've had it. No wonder why you're so cranky."

To say Jaskier was flabbergasted was a colossal understatement. "Me? _Cranky_?", he shrieked.

With the littlest sign of remorse, Geralt interrupted his roughhousing to rub soothing circles into Jaskier's back. "Yes, cranky. You cross with me, bard? What will you do? _Tear me a new one with your singing?_ " Geralt said this while rubbing his nose against the patch of skin that stuck out of his fancy collar.

Irritation and fondness eargerly took turns.

Jaskier didn't really like that either.

_He didnt't know what to do with himself when Geralt was nice to him._

It flipped things upside down.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder to sneak a glance at Geralt. The gesture was almost too coy for his liking. Too adoring. _He couldn't help it_. He liked the man. His war-hardened face, the calloused hands, even this _ridculous, unkempt stubble_ that sometimes gave him _carpet burn_ when he buried his face between Jaskier's legs.

Geralt's hands were still firmly planted on Jaskier's hips. _How did they get there, anyhow?_ This was too much.

It must've looked odd, Jaskier figured — them, standing side by side like this. They had little to no height difference, but one was bruised and the other one _pampered_. A slayer of beasts and a meandering musician.

But Geralt had _this look_ on his face as if he was cataloguing each one of Jaskier's barely-there freckles and it did funny things to his heart.

This somehow felt more intimate than when they'd fucked the night before.

"I suppose, I could tell you a bit more about my role, if you'd like to hear...", Jaskier proposed so suddenly that he even surprised himself.

It didn't break the spell. Geralt's eyes were still transfixed on a particularly note-worthy freckle. "Sure. Humor me."

The bard spun around and Geralt's hands fell to his sides, followed by a moment of silence when Jaskier chewed on his lower lip. "No, nevermind, I'll _show_ you.", he exclaimed.

Jaskier reached into his bag and pulled out a stark white mask which he then held up to his face. " _Well_?"

Geralt examined the thing, perplexed. "I don't... follow."

"Ahw, 'twas for naught!" Jaskier threw his head back with a groan. "I'm a devil, _Geralt_! An archfiend! The villain!"

The witcher growled annoyedly. "And how was I supposed to know that by looking at a nondescript mask?"

Jaskier lowered his hands and fiddled with the thing between his fingers. It felt kind of soothing.

"Well, you see... The act of covering your face is blasphemous. The church is yapping on about how their god has created us in his image and whatnot... We're performing a sacral play, as you know. But I, however, am the evil deceiver. The _tempter_. The town I reside in does not know of my true nature, my real face. I _corrupt_ , I _demoralize_ and I spread the seeds of chaos that blossom into the _very thing_ those holier-than-thou verse-spitting, non-humans-hating preachers fear the most — namely, _freedom_.", he emphasized his words as if he were already on stage. Geralt held his gaze because he found something in it that pleaded to him.

"That's when I encounter the noble hero who knows justice like the back of his hand. He sees it, wields it. The townsmen and women keep him at an arm's length because, well, they themselves are blinded by sin. In my devilish nature, I see this and pine and _long_. When our paths intertwine, the poor hero is led astray." Geralt clenched his jaw. "He's distraught. The devil shows him something he's not known before... Earthly pleasures, cheap thrill. It spoils the hero, lessens his resolve."

It was merely a play.

It was merely a play.

_It was merely a play._

"And... _what_ does this hero do?", Geralt inquired with an almost steady voice.

Jaskier's lips curled into a hollow, little smile. " _He does what he's got to do_. The hero strips the devil off his fine, fine silks and shatters the mask. It's when sees me for who I truly am for the very first time — _a fraud._ Deadweight. Unfit for the righteous one." Jaskier's voice was something of an earthquake and, _gods_ , he felt naked despite being dressed so he did what he could always do best and continued running his mouth.

"A-and, _and_... The hero turns his back on the devil. He marches onward. And... After the betrayal, I'll sing my little song — a limmerick of shame and pain. And the audience won't cheer because the devil's wickedness is bared but rather because they've all known abandonment in one way or another."

And Jaskier would know it time and time again because his heart lived in more places that one and sometimes it threatened to leap out of his throat when the witcher so much as _blinked_ at him.

"Silly me.", Jaskier choked out a laugh. "Spoiling the whole show for you. I just, uhm... _It's the nerves_..."

The patron saint of mummers — if there even _was_ one — would surely curse him.

Jaskier would knock on wood until his knuckles started bleeding. _He'd repent_. Maybe then this childish outburst could be written off as a mere slip of the tongue instead of... _Whatever this was_.

There was a daring gleam in Geralt's cat eyes. "Superstition's just tall tales."

Geralt's hand found its way into Jaskier's — unprompted. And, _oh_ , this was nice. If that's what being gently touched by him felt like, then Jaskier would grow to love it alarmingly fast. It couldn't be compared to the mechanical precision he was being touched with when they stumbled into bed together.

It was barely above a whisper when Geralt said "I think that hero's a fucking _fool_."

Jaskier swallowed thickly. "And you're not?", he countered with feigned light-heartedness.

"I try not to be."

"But you _are_.", the bard insisted and buried his face somewhere safe... in Geralt's stupidly wide chest, to be exact, which was _hairy_ and not any less scratchier than the beard. Jaskier wanted to _sob_.

"The devil seems to make for good company.", Geralt mused and gave Jaskier's hand a firm squeeze.

"He _does_. And I think he likes that stupid hero way too much for his _own damn good_."

"Surely, the hero likes him back."

" _Well, how is the devil supposed to know when the hero doesn't say it to his face?_ ", Jaskier all but yelled into his coarse chest hair.

Geralt let out an exasperated sigh. "Do I _really_ have to say it?"

Jaskier nodded. "Please do. _It's just three words._ "

"Just three words?"

" _Just_ three words."

Geralt bent down to press his lips against the crown of Jaskier's head, brief and meaningfully. " _Break a leg._ "

"You _godsdamned_ bastard—!"

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about masks is true btw i know too much abt medieval theater plays esp religious once. (bonks myself on the head w/ a wooden plank)


End file.
